Under_The_Whispering_Door_by_TJ_Klune

She shrugged. “I like the dead more than the living. Dead people usually
don’t care about the little annoyances of life.”
He hadn’t thought about it that way. He’d give anything for those
annoyances again. Hindsight was a bitch of a thing.
Nelson stayed, for the most part, in his chair in front of the fireplace.
Other times, he wandered between the tables, nodding along with
conversations he could take no part in.
Apollo was in and out of the house. Wallace heard him barking
ferociously at a squirrel, incensed that the squirrel ignored him completely.
But it was Hugo who Wallace watched the most.
Hugo, who seemed to have all the time in the world for anyone who asked
for his attention. A gaggle of older women came in the early afternoon,
fawning and cooing over him, pinching his cheeks and giggling when he
blushed. He knew them all by name, and they clearly adored him. They all
left with smiles on their faces, paper cups of tea steaming in their hands.
It wasn’t just the older women. It was everyone. Kids demanded he lift
them up and he did, but not with his hands. They held onto his thinly muscled
biceps as he raised his arms, their feet kicking into nothing, their laughter
bright and loud. Younger women flirted, batting their eyes at him. Men shook
his hand furiously, their grips looking strong as their arms pumped up and
down. They called him by his first name. They all seemed delighted to see
him.
By the time Hugo turned the sign on the window to CLOSED and locked the
door, Wallace was wrung out. He didn’t know how Hugo and Mei could do
this day in and day out. He wondered if it ever felt too big for them, facing
the clear evidence of life, knowing what waited for everyone after.
Speaking of.
“Why aren’t there other people here?” he asked as Mei lugged in a wash
bin full of dirty dishes. Through the swinging door, he could see Hugo had
picked up a broom and was sweeping the floor as he overturned the chairs.
She grunted as she set the bin on the counter next to the sink. “What?”
“Other people,” Wallace repeated. Then, “Ghosts. Or whatever.”
“Why would there be?” Mei asked, beginning to load the dishwasher for
the sixth time that day.
“People die all the time.”